


These Boots Were Made For… (Frank's side)

by TashanaAmbrosia



Series: With Two Hands [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Karen in Frank's shirt, Slight Voyeurism, damn-it Frank, it's fluff - not completely sold on his his voice, kastle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12837891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashanaAmbrosia/pseuds/TashanaAmbrosia
Summary: Tumblr prompt for Karen wearing Frank’s clothes. It’s fluffy I think. I think the image in my head was better then it turned out in text. Hopefully, you guys like it.Another older piece was written post-Daredevil S2, but pre-Punisher - so again noncanon-ish





	1. Chapter 1

**These Boots Were Made For… (Frank's side)**

 

A quiet, “Damn-it, Frank” had escaped her lips when she dragged him to her bathroom to patch him up.

That had been well over a month ago and he hadn’t trusted himself to come back around, until tonight. He didn’t know she’d kept the shirt that he’d forgotten at her place, hadn’t even realized that he’d forgotten it, honestly. 

September had gotten cold fast and he’d worn two shirts to help keep warm as he worked that night. He’d gotten sliced behind his shoulder and couldn’t patch it himself. Whatever possessed him to seek refuge on Karen Page’s fire escape was beyond him, but she’d let him in when she should damn well shouldn’t have. She’d pulled the Kevlar vest off of him and both shirts, her hands fast on his back examining the damage.

That was when she cursed at him, “Damn-it, Frank," and he deserved it. Had no right to be anywhere near her.

“Damn-it, Frank.” He muttered to himself as he watched her through the glass. The window was cracked open slightly and he could hear Nancy Sinatra’s,  _These Boots Are Made for Walking,_  drifting in the air as Karen danced around her kitchen. Her boots were new or at least he’d never seen them before, but her legs those were not new, he’d seen them plenty. The blonde practically lived in skirts; he'd noticed it when she stood by hospital bed: pencil skirt and legs for days. Her skirts had been longer, however, more of a tease from what couldn’t be seen vs what could be, but this situation was entirely different.

Her having his shirt, not that surprising; her keeping his shirt, not that surprising; but her wearing his shirt, that was something more than surprising.

The shirt was huge on her, the short-sleeve covering her elbows, but her legs were so long that it barely hit mid-thigh. Karen sashayed around the counter and checked whatever was cooking on the stove. She suddenly pivoted on her heel and raced to her phone, but instead of answering a phone call she turned up the volume and, no shit, squealed.  _Jump in the Line,_  blasted through her phone speakers and she rocked her shoulders and hips to the upbeat tune. She raised her hands over her head and he saw a flash of purple lace as the shirt lifted up too high.

He was staring at her like a damn pervert. What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the contrast of her pale legs and  _his_  black shirt. Her grin was ear to ear as she danced alone in her own space, thinking no one watching her. He needed to leave, but he didn’t want to. He also didn’t want her to catch him staring at her, that would be bad…bad…everything about this was bad. He didn’t belong with her and she didn't belong in  _his_  shirt listening to happy music.

He told himself to turn and leave, but his hand twitched and his knuckles wrapped on the glass.

Karen whirled around her hands covering her mouth to stifle her own scream. After recovering from the startle and stomping over to the window, she flung it open. Her blue eyes glared up at him while her hands pulled on  _his_  shirt, trying to work it further down her legs.

“Ma’am.” He nodded his head to her, trying to look like he hadn’t been watching for more than five minutes.

“Damn-it, Frank.” She shook her head and motioned for him follow him inside. “At least it’ll be your shirt I get blood on this time.”

 


	2. These Boots are made for…. Karen’s side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just Karen's side of things... technically before part 1, but it's more fun if you read them in this order.

 

**These Boots are made for…. Karen’s side**

Karen glared at the treacherous piece of paper from UPS (United Postal Service) that had been taped to her door sometime on Friday: “Sorry we missed you. We will make one more attempt to deliver this package before you will need to pick it up at our local office.”  Her eyebrows narrowed at the thought of trying to get the UPS office within their narrow hours. She knew she should have had the package sent to her office at the paper. So much for her Saturday out and about, now she was stuck at home all day waiting.

She ran down ran down to the corner store and grabbed the groceries that she needed for her dinner that night and more coffee because she always needed coffee.  After putting away groceries, she attempted to work on her newest story: a feel-good piece story about at-risk kids training shelter dogs to be aid dogs for people with disabilities. She made some more notes on the information the director of the program sent her, but she couldn’t do much more with until her interviews with the kids on Monday. She flicked through the pictures of the successful dogs and finally settled on the brindle colored, Pitbull mix named, Cinnamon and attached it to her story.

Since she couldn’t work on the story, she decided to start cleaning her apartment. The problem Karen often got into when starting a project was that she didn’t know how to halfway anything, so it could get intense fast. She put the ingredients in the stock pot and turned the burner on low so her chili could simmer all day while she cleaned. The cold bite in the October air made chili sound like the best possible meal for a grey day. Her apartment wasn’t very big, but the studio suited her just fine. She scrubbed the floor in the bathroom, grimacing at the red-ish/brown color of the grime on the rag. She sorted out her closet, piling the items that she didn’t wear anymore on her bed to take to consignment later. Karen swept her broom under the bed to get rid of the dust bunnies but pulled out a black t-shirt instead.

The shirt was far too big to be hers and the scent on it was gunpowder, blood, and sweat; it was Frank’s. Oh was this from last month when he got cut on his back? Her fingers found the slit in the back of the shirt; yup this was from last month. She shook the shirt out and laid it out on the bed over the other clothes; she’d need to get that back to him. Hard to get clothes when you’re considered dead. 

She cracked the window to let in some of the cool air in and decided to run the risk of a quick shower. Her hair was damp from sweat, the only major issue with this apartment the heat worked too well. She tapped a note to the outside of her door: “ **KNOCK LOUD.** ”

She was toweling out the hair when she heard Bang, Bang, BANG on her door. 

“Shit!” She scrambled into a pair of underwear and looked for her robe, _where the hell did that thing go?!?_ “Don’t leave!” She screamed out looking around for something to throw on.

“Lady, I got another 100 plus deliveries today, you’ve got 30 seconds to get to this door.” The annoyed male voice yelled back.

_Oh fuck you._  She thought throwing on Frank’s shirt on and ripping open the door. “Hi,” She looked at his name tag, “Chad, I hope you’re not fond of your job.”

“This was my dream as a child.” Came his dead-panned response, as he handed her the electronic device to sign for the box. “Sign line three.”

Karen signed and snatched the box from him. “I hope you have a  _great_  day, Chad.”

He flipped her off and skulked off down the hallway.

She was not letting this be ruined for her. She cut open the box and looked at the first truly impulsive buy she’d made in over a year. Boots: beautiful, brown, ankle high with a bit of heel and detailed with buckles boots. Call her any stereotype you wanted, but fall was her favorite season and she hadn’t bought a pair of fun boots in ages. She pulled them on and gleefully giggled as they were as comfortable as she expected them to be.

She made herself check on the chili and put on a pot of coffee before skipping to the bathroom door to look at herself in the full-length mirror. She loved the boots, but it was weird to see herself in Frank’s shirt, she should take it off…

Pandora had other plans, however as Nancy Sinatra’s,  _These Boot Are Made for Walking,_  came piping out of the speakers. Well, it would be a crime not to dance in brand new boots to this song. She’d change in a minute; it wasn’t like Frank Castle was going to knock on her window tonight.  

 


End file.
